#89 - Shave

In the water rooms, there were barber chairs.  Both for having someone shave you and shaving one’s self.  Those were kneeling chairs with horrible little mirrors, though recently someone had replaced them with the new, smoothly silvered and coppered ones that were being made out of float glass.

Ahrimaz dried himself off completely, tying his damp hair back, avoided those chairs.  He stood in the alcove with the other kind of chair, dithering whether he could make himself sit down.  My hair is long enough to choke me, my beard I can grab with both hands and have it come through my fingers.  I don’t like the weeds on my face.  I don’t like the scraggly hair-ends.

Once the old man’s funeral was finished and the handfuls of hair he’d flung onto the pyre had grown back, he’d decreed that mourning wigs were no longer fashionable. A generation ago Great Grandfather had lost all his hair and powdered wigs had been fashionable.  As far as Ahrimaz was concerned, they itched.  They were also home to lice and other bugs, stank no matter how much perfume you used and were utterly useless under a helmet, in fact they were downright dangerous on the battlefield.

Everyone knew the story of how Sen-Grand Guyard de Haute’s peruke had slid down between his gorget and his breastplate, gotten hung up there and as he fought he’d inhaled enough hair that he choked upon it.  It was a funny children’s story now because he’d won the battle but didn’t live to accept his opponent’s surrender.

“You can sit, Ahrimaz,” Rutçyen said.  She and Pel were both there and, as usual, managed to walk in without him hearing them.  You would think I’d be able to anticipate this, by now, he chided himself.

He sat down and leaned back in the chair, carefully tipping his head back.  “You want me to trim it?  Or take it down to the skin?” She asked, cheerfully washing her hands.  She had obviously just dismissed a sword class because she was still armed.

“Why don’t you use that,” he nodded at her belt.  “To give me a trim… oh about here?”  He indicated shoulder height and she snorted.

“I could but I don’t generally help my students kill themselves.”

“You keep saying that and then steal our breath every class.”  He smiled, safely hidden behind the beard, still.

“You only feel like you’re dying,” she teased.  “Not for real.” Pel had a carved brain-wood shaving case just open, pulled out a beautiful horn-handled razor.  The soap cup and the lotion bottle were both Yhom blue crystalware, the brush was boar’shair with a polished white-nut handle.

“Don’t tell me that was his…”  Ahrimaz made to sit up but found himself held down with a light touch on his shoulder from Rutaçyen.

“No,” Pel said.  “This was made just for you.”

“What?  I have no… I mean… why?”

“Because I thought you might want it soon.”

“But…”

“Shush now,” Rutçyen said, unfolding one of the hot towels she’d just fetched from the shelf, wrapping it around his face, giving him more darkness to hide behind.  He tensed up until he realized she was careful and left him sufficient and comfortable breathing room.  Of course she would.  She’s as good as my personal barber, in that world.  His heart hammered in his chest as someone took up the length of his hair and began combing it out.

She changed the towels three times and his hair was now being brushed, by Pel, with a luxurious bristle brush that soothed his cramped scalp.  “You needn’t say anything else, but you never said, short or shave, just one word to answer the question.”

“Sh…sh…shave,” he managed to say as the cooler air hit his tingling skin.  He couldn’t focus on one thing, hair or face and behind closed eyes he was almost forced to relax.

The clink of soap being foamed up in the bowl, the oiled hands massaging his face with long, slow circles, through the beard, gentle over the cheekbones and eyes and up into his hair, strong kneading fingers on his scalp.  He was suddenly limp and his mouth opened slightly.  Relaxed.

Clipping noises, more hair brushing.  Then smooth, gentle tugging as the long hair on his chin was trimmed down to where it could be shaved.  The scent of vanilla.  Then lemon, from the elephant’s orangery, as the warm foam swirled into his cheeks in even circles, lathered onto his face and neck.  It was nearly impossible to be afraid, even with his neck exposed to the gentle, firm gliding pull that he knew had to be the razor.